


Earthbound

by witchspellbook



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Family Issues, Gabriel has humility sucker punched into him, Gen, Heresy, Post-Canon, author took liberties with the capitals, author was raiced christian and it shows, ineffable bureaucracy if you squint, slight sexual humor, tagged teen cuz crowley has a foul mouth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 00:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21235097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchspellbook/pseuds/witchspellbook
Summary: "It starts like an itch in the back of his mind. Like an odd weight in the very centre of his soul, like a jigsaw piece put upside down in the middle of his essence.He pays no mind to it. He has better things to do. There is an Armageddon to start in a matter of days, soon enough humanity would get wiped out of existence. It ought to happen as written and he, personally, would make sure of it."Gabriel faces the consecuences of his own hubris. He doesn't Fall, but he feels like rushing down to the worst posible and his wing won't work to stop him from crashing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> what im doing writing 15 pages about the character i dislike the most from this series??  
anyways, here, divine retribution.

It starts like an itch in the back of his mind. Like an odd weight in the very centre of his soul, like a jigsaw piece put upside down in the middle of his essence.

He pays no mind to it. He has better things to do. There is an Armageddon to start in a matter of days, not that time is an actual thing he has to worry about, it was only invented by humanity at some point in the -close- past eternity, soon enough, though, humanity would get wiped out of existence. It ought to happen as written and he, personally, would make sure of it.

_____________________

He had failed. Armageddon had been averted by two incompetents and a handful of human children. Good news; Hell’s forces had been stopped as well and the Great War could still be fought in the name of Good, the kind of good with a capital g. The bad news were that that itch was getting harder to ignore. It felt like a dull ache now, like a muscle pulled too tight, but not in that friendly, satisfying way his corporation ached after running a marathon. It pulled tight like something about to snap, like a whip about to strike. Somewhere his mind provided the idea of a warning, the impulse to stop. Of course, that wasn’t an option.

The principality Aziraphale had not Fallen after that stunt, the principality, the biggest metaphorical headache of his entire existence had not been immediately sanctioned by the Almighty who obviously had better things to do than to waist Their attention on the worst of Their angels, which of course only meant that the responsibility of said punishment fell onto his hands and he would gladly take part in the correction of the mistake that had tampered with the Great Plan. If the fact meant a temporary truce between Heaven and Hell must took place to correct this mistake, well, everything in name of the Greatest Good, right? In spite of that, there was rightful punishment to be delivered promptly against the traitor, for God and for Heaven and for the perfect white peace of Heaven. 

____________________

No angel had died in the First War, but Azrael had been finally breath to life. Some had come close, though, some still showed signs of it, like it had happened just a few moments before, those were the ones that had never forgotten and kept scars of golden righteousness unto themselves. Some others had fallen into sulphur pits and gone up in the flames of a new fire, a fire that burned and bit and striped away layers of holy and he was sure he’d never see them again, that they were as good as unmade, but they had come out crawling and deformed and in pain. Pain. Something that had never happened before, like flaming swords and Hell and sin and demons.

Fear was a new thing, too, invented with the First War. He had felt it. When Lucifer, the Adversary, former sibling and now the First Fallen, had charged towards him up in the void that Heaven had been before Earth, still bright and beautiful but emptied of Their love and full instead of burning rage. Michael had come between them, longsword unsheathed, followed by their freshly made soldiers, Aziraphale among them, who had taken and dragged him away from the crossfire into a safer place, diving back into battle without giving him a second glance, flaming sword in hand. Gabriel had hated him in that moment. Gabriel had hated himself.

Among the first ones the only one made to fight had been Michael, to protect, the Almighty had said when They still talked to them, he however, had been made to talk, to represent, to mediate, The Messenger, humans had called him once, The Metatron may be the voice of God for the rest of the Horde but Gabriel was the voice of God for the mortal sons and daughters of man. The cherubim had talked to the humans and loved them and somehow, they had loved him back.

Aziraphale shined like the Lightbringer when he had been made. Holy and good and recklessly kind in face of self-preservation, but he was a soldier, made to yield swords, guard doors, maim and kill, and Gabriel had sublimated his fear into contempt. The fact that the cherubim was good at following orders had been of advantage for him and after everything had fallen into place again and the Fallen had been called demons and exiled to a place called Hell he had demoted him to principality, in charge of the newly made Earth, so he wouldn't see him again, so he may be faced with a Fallen One and died in righteous defence of Their children. He had followed that directive so painstakingly he had defended them against angels the same.

The principality, however, had not been unmade when he had walked into the hellfire, nor he had changed, he looked angry, nonetheless. Jaded. He had breathed the fire unto them, straightened his clothes and walked out of Heaven with his head high, like the place was below him anyway. 

____________________

He’d gone down to Earth to check out on things, see the world made anew by the antichrist child. It had been a while in human time, maybe a few months, maybe a couple of years, he could never be sure. Nothing seemed too changed. The air did smell cleaner, but just a smudge and the climate did seem more sensible, but not enough to make humans not worry about it. Dinosaurs were real now, though, all dead, yes but the antichrist must not have known about the giant reptile prank so there's that… 

His wings felt heavy when he landed among the ozone that marked his arrival on earth, stress or something he thought, and that damned odd sensation he still couldn't shake. He would take a quick trip to a hot spring before going back to Heaven, one of Earth true wonders, really, the only thing he would have missed of it, and the clothes. Maybe he even would take a dive in an active volcano, molten lava had never made any dent in his corporation if he focused enough. 

London was busy as ever, the people just as human as always, walking besides him like he was another of them, barely recognizing the presence of the divine among them, Lord, they didn't deserve Their love. There was a time when walking among humans would have blinded them, a glimpse of him could have burned them, turned them into salt, he was a godblessed archangel, with both minuscule and capital a, his presence should have been recognized and feared like in the first days of mankind when only a handful of the descendants of Adam could look him in the face without weeping blood. Disrespectful vermin wandering around in Their creation like they owned it, forgetting about him and They and it was even worse in Asia. 

His corporation’s feet took him to Soho, in front of that dreadful bookshop, force of habit he thought. “Closed” it said in the door and it actually seemed empty. He wondered if he could burn it again. Blasphemous, to hoard words, stories when they did not praise Their glory. What was the point of humans talking about humans? So many words wasted, the only things worthy of any attention in the building were the Bibles he had seen once in his routine visits, the word of God, even if it had been sullied by the human quill, and the prophecy books, direct word from Them to them, skipping him, ignoring his duty as The Messenger. 

Would the butt of a cigarette do it? Bring it aflame? He miracled one, pondering the possibilities. He had made it unwelcome to smoke in Heaven, but Earth was filthy already, no matter the antichrist’s efforts to clean it, no matter the incompetents’ efforts to create conscience about the issue. Smoking it leisurely, enjoying the wait, he needn't to hurry as the butt of it would burn for as long as he wished for, though, after realizing that no window was left open to throw it through it, he figured he’d have to burn it from the outside in, he would have to wear down the wood, leave the amber in a cranny of the building and wait for the fire, it lacked the dramatism of something destroying itself from the inside out but it would do. He aimed and shot the remaining of the cigarette into a corner in the door’s window.

The butt shot right back into his face. It was protected now, then. great. perfect. sonovabitch. 

He stepped into the end of the cigarette and went to sit somewhere to reflect on his next move, the coffee-shop nearby would do, he could still see the entrance of the bookshop quite clearly, but it kept him warded form sight. He wasn't ready to go back to heaven yet, loose ends and everything. Maybe he could terminate the antichrist, aim straight to Hell’s pride, restart the war in that manner, he would have to consult it with Michael such war subjects were their jurisdiction, but they most probably would agree. It would not be a subtle job though and that would put him in a bad mood, things left in the open like that, no subtlety at all. 

Doing something about the principality could be something more at hand, something even satisfying, however since hellfire didn't work and most certainly holy water wouldn't either. He asked for an espresso for appearances sake and let it cool down while he wondered what punishment would be in line… to attack a weak spot was always a good strategy and Aziraphale’s weak spot was that annoying black clad serpent, he had come clean and sided himself with the demon after the whole Armageddon debacle, attacking the demon could bring good results, after all, if the serpent were to be discorporated it ought to go back to Hell where it clearly won't be handed a new corporation, leaving him trapped in the abyss to be tortured or unmade my the rest of the Fallen ones. Maybe leaving the principality without any ally, completely alone on Earth would drive him to do something drastic, like killing himself, he chuckled. It probably wouldn't happen that way, but he lost nothing dreaming. Some arrangements would have to be done in Heaven for that to happen, but they could wait enough for him to take a relaxing bath in a hot spring.

He snapped his fingers and was out of London, leaving the table and the unpaid cold espresso behind.

____________________

The onsen hadn't been helpful, his back was still tight, even more so than before, and after an hour of massages and oils and hot rocks the weight of his wings had become heavier than ever, now not only that thing in the centre of him itched like a poisoned appendix, but that feeling had expanded to his only pair of wings and was starting to creep into his corporation, slowly and steady he realized. Besides, there was something telling him not to go back to Heaven, not just yet. Maybe the air made anew by the antichrist, maybe just the ache where his wings were becoming stiff. He had had a stressful time dealing with the Armageddon, which had been all for naught, and the failed execution… he deserved some vacations. A strategic retreat of course, to plan Heaven’s next move, he told himself again, to settle again in the Great Plan, yes. To browse Kyoto high fashion district, then Tokyo’s.

____________________

He has spent six months on earth, hopping from city to city, feeling increasingly uncomfortable, blaming it on the people, in the cultures, in the languages and climates. His miracles were acting up and it was like reality had a personal vendetta against him. His clothes keep getting dirty and around night-time his eyes would start to get sore and close on their own. Humans had started to notice him; humans had started to notice that he is not paying for the stuffs he does not consume. His corporation’s feet have started to hurt if he spends too much time walking or standing and his shoulders hurt like his wings are made of molten metal.

When he feels most like the gravity of the planet is pulling him down, demanding of him to stay on Earth is the moment when he decides to go back to Heaven, he has been putting it off for too long already and hopes that the sanctity of Their light and grace will heal his aching wings, so he closes his eyes and takes flight, hopping to leave his corporation behind, with all its aches and needs.

Only he doesn’t. He is still standing in the middle of the hotel room he is renting with miracled money, still in his tailored suit that he hadn’t miracled clean that day. Only that now he feels a burning emptiness in the digestive system of his corporation. His throat is dry, and his legs give out underneath him. He manages to reach the bed by opening his wings, they are stiff, and it burns to move them like if they are glued by recently cooled lava. He hauls himself over the bed, reaching for the service phone and asks for everything in the room service menu and while he waits for it to arrive he makes his way over to the bathroom in unsteady legs and buries himself under the shower head, cold water soothing his wings while he drinks and drinks the water that tastes like chlorine and fluoride and if his face feels warm it is because it’s a shitty shower.

For the first time in his existence that night Gabriel eats. For the first time in his long existence, that night, Gabriel sleeps.

____________________

He is in Dubai when he felt zzzir before seen zzzir. A demon, a Prince of Hell. He finds Beelzebub standing near a beggar, a bone-skin woman who doesn't even ask for money or food to the people that pass her while his two children play in the mud near her, just as skinny and hungry as her. He throws a quick miracle towards the woman to undo whatever Beelzebub had done to her, mostly out of pettiness.

“You smell different” zzzi said, zzzi were slurping something sickly-sweet of unnatural colour in a clear plastic container. “Tainted” he feels the blood drain from his face. He should not feel as familiar with his corporation reactions as he is, but by now he can recognize when fear is clawing his way up his legs like a highway on fire, or the vice grip in which hunger seizes his stomach.

“What are you doing up here Beebz” he asks changing the subject instead, towering over them, mocking, trying to communicate how much more closer to Heaven and Their love he is than zzzir, if only by straightening his spine “demoted to earth duty?”

“Don’t call me that, Gabe.” zzzi bites the phrase but otherwise doesn’t look at him “Need to put a new field agent. That motherfucker really was the best for the job. Could really sully quantities in a matter of days. He took credit for the Spanish Inquisition, y’know, one of your things.” It had been his idea, he wasn't particularly proud of it, count on the humans to take something holy and turn it into a tool of soul degradation and general misfortune. “He really did get human motivation. Prat.” 

“How long have you been here, Beebz?” He hopes that the words behind the words don’t actually show; _are you stuck in earth too? does your wings feel heavy too? am I… _

“V’been jumping from Hell and back for weeks now. Incompetents, all of them. That one” and zzzi point at someone standing in the middle of the busy street that turns to be a low tier demon, the one with the pretty lashes “is gonna get descorporated within the hour. Still doesn’t get the hang of streets, or that he could bend reality to his will, only good thing about it is that traumatises humans, blood everywhere, y’know”. 

“Why don’t you do the job then?” he knows, of course he knows, it is undignifying for a Prince of Hell, like staying on Earth is undignifying for an Archangel, even if he also is an archangel.

“Are you an idiot? Have you any idea how much work does it actually take to keep demons in line” zzzi sound tired, but then again, zzzi always sound tired “Dagon is the only one that is worth a pence but fuck if we need her for the files, no one else can understand shit with all the blessed paperwork. And if I send up here someone like Hastur it fucks up with the balance. You cannot push humans with that much evil, it works in the opposite way and it ends with them banding together and helping each-others, disgusting. But you know this, right? Like if you bless someone too much, they get complacent and start to feel like they have rights over everything, y’know, like white middle age men. Trickle down the blessings, trickle down the hexes and keep them on their feet.”

A loud screeching sound distracted them, and a ban skidded over the pavement, they could hear cries and shouts and the beggar woman stood up in shaky legs running over to where the demon was now descorporated, looking for the younger of her children. 

“There we are! Cheers, mate.” Beelzebub said, lifting zzzir plastic cup, with a vague wave of his hand he made sure no human was actually seriously hurt, that kind of miracle never failed him, even if it disgusted him. “Come on, way to ruin the fun. Well, it’s been agonizing talking to you but I hafta get back down, grab another incompetent, see if they can pull their weight. ‘Bout your smell, you don’t smell like us yet, but keep up the good work and I’ll see you down there. Drop dead, Gabe.” And zzzi is gone, swallowed by the concrete, leaving him alone and uneasy.

He has never spend so much time in his corporation and already his hands were starting to shake, cold, that was a thing humans feel, he was getting cold he had told himself so he buried his hands inside his pockets, so he couldn't see the tremor of his hands and the purple tinting his nails, he noticed with vague surprise a piece of wrinkled paper. It was a rectangular card of laid paper perfectly white. In handwritten, bold, golden letters said only one word: _Repent_. Few seconds after the card had disappeared in white light and heat that left the tips of his corporation’s fingers tingling with the memory of holy light. The cold has getting worse he thought as he hid his trembling hands in his pockets again.

____________________

There had been a human once. She had looked at his true form and had not feared. He had felt bare and small, like looking at Their face. He had delivered the message, blessed be thou among women, his most important job. She had known. She had questioned him, I have known no men, she had said amused. Young fleeting thing had seen ahead, had accepted already. Had invited him to her bed, They had told him once, long time ago, to do as Their chosen asked and he had seen her dark eyes and dark hair and dark, warm skin and taken the shape of her husband to be and had lied with her. He will be named Saviour; Joshua, and he will walk among men for thirty and three years they had said in one voice.

He had left lighter than ever, warm like Their light had graced over them. He had visited her through her life, met the boy twice. Once, overseen his first miracle, she had been there, and they had drunk from the same chalice. He had seen eager and hopeful, passionate, holy light pouring from him. Then he had brought the boy back from Heaven. The serpent had talked to him by now, he knew the serpent’s real name and had asked for the Fallen Ones, angry and hot like a fire in a temple and had made him feel small again, meaningless and wrong unlike his mother.

He had taken her to Heaven, unable to see her decay. He had never talked to her again.

____________________

He tries to go back again. And again, and again. Each time that thing hurts more, each time his wings feel heavier. If he ignores his corporation, he can feel his true self dimming, the light of Their love shutting off of him, God’s love still present, Their grace slipping away from his fingers. And he needs to eat now, and he needs to sleep. Not often, not like humans do. But demons don’t need to eat, he knows this, yet there is him, eating once a week or so, not because of demonic indulgences and hedonistic impulses, but because he needs it. He thanks for every meal and learns that he prefers fresh fruits and preserved meats. Wine is good, wine is the blood of Christ, the blood of the boy, wine is what once he shared with Mary. He doesn’t have it often. 

Still, he tries to go back and it hurts, and it tires him. So he pays for the rooms he sleeps in, but every time he manages to miracle less money, he’s getting desperate and he knows only one person naive enough to help him through whatever was happening to him, and so he decided to make his way over to wherever Aziraphale was now. He knew he had to go back to England, but when he landed his wounded wings had only take him to continental Europe. He lands in Calais, close enough at least, therefore he decides to board the train, finding money in his pocket. Just enough, barely enough this time. He has to count the coins to pay the Eurostar’s ticket and has to settle into whatever it is that is not first class, but at least it takes him to London.

Aziraphale is not in London. The bookshop is still in Soho, it’s not closed down, it does not look abandoned, so he asks around. He still has the charm of an angel and humans want to talk to him, he knows his corporation is attractive, so he asks and charms and smiles until one of the waiters of the coffee-shop in front of the bookshop tells him. Mr. Fell moved to the Souths Downs, he is getting married or something, as far as I know, the waiter tells him, he got together with the love of his life and are living together now, he still opens the bookshop, but the opening hours are just as much of a shitshow as always. For Pride they were here the whole day, handing water bottles and biscuits to the attendants. 

He thanks him and somehow, he has enough money this time to tip.

____________________

He’d found the house, he still could feel divine and demonic presences, and it helps, even if the house is protected and hidden. It takes him a while, he passes the house several times, walking idly looking for traces of them because in the house there are not two presences, they feel mingled, woven into one thing instead of two different entities, seeping into the foundations of the building. The house is a three-story cottage where he could smell the sea salt of the ocean still clinging to the air. Surrounding it, a luscious garden of fruit trees, verdant plants and vivid flowers. The main door is facing east. The black picket fence allowed him to be opened and he had made his way among the apple trees that framed the pathway that lead to a deck from where the sea could be seen. He knows enough of the Earth now to know better than to knock when a bell is attached to the wall next to the door, he rang it and stepped back, his breath faltering, he doesn’t actually knows if he needs to breath so he forces the lungs of his corporation to work.

“Aziraphale!” he said as soon the door had opened for him, hopping his smile hides the desperation in his voice. The principality opens and the colour drains from his face; in the threshold he looks like hit by lightning but before any of the angels had time to react the serpent had stricken him. His knuckles had made contact with his corporation’s chin with the weight of the gravity of a dying star, otherworldly and dark and inevitable. He had felt it like if every moment was separated by an eternity, the fire of Hell in the beastly eyes of his former sibling, fangs and a growl that no human could ever summon. Just like him the serpent had never been made to fight, but somewhere along the way it had learned to defend themselves like a cornered wild animal, it had learnt to hurt before getting hurt, to maim before getting maimed, to kill before getting killed. In another moment he could saw the true form of the serpent, three pairs of hand and nine black wings like the void they were made in, amber eyes like the heart of a star and hair and halo aflame with the first fire, fangs sharp like sound, dripping silver mercury and neon and skin of moving obsidian scales hiding the defiled holy light of every angel’s soul, more sublime than ever before falling, even more beautiful than himself he realized with the bitter edge of envy.

He then registers the bony knuckles crashing against his face. And the next moment he was falling, the Earth spinning around his axis until his perfect, soft hand made contact with the gravel of the entryway path tearing at the skin. There was a weird flavour now around his tongue, warm iron filling his corporation’s mouth, then a sharp pain spreading from the point of contact, throbbing, hot and unpleasant. He’d been in a war before and had witnessed several as an observer for Their righteous purposes, but he had never felt physical pain, no beyond his sore shoulders and tire feet, not imposed by another. He takes his hand that is not holding him from falling on his back to his mouth, feeling the tender spot, it hurts. It’s so alien he feels like laughing and so he laughs. He laughs because his clothes are dirty with dust and grime, and what now he recognises as blood, dripping from a cut in his lip. He laughs because of course he still can bear the wrath of another non-human, but of course this human body will get hurt by the attack of another human body. He laughs because his frail, fallen sibling has put him to the ground. He laughs because he wants to cry.

He stops because there is a thing crawling its way up from his digestive system, it’s spasming and he hadn’t eaten this week. He curls over himself in heaves and in between the tears and the pain he can see the principality. Aziraphale is not like he remembers him; he has changed since last time he was in heaven talking about stopping the antichrist. He is just as bright as he remember him and four of his six wings rise proudly to the heavens not white and pure now, there is a silver line that crosses his primaries, the pair that should be covering his faces no longer obscures them, no longer meek and submissive, its fanned and open, just like his thousands of thousands of eyes, focused on him and the serpent and the rest of the world. His double thumbed hand white with heat, ready to call forth his flaming sword. And oh, Gabriel has never felt like the bad one until this very moment. To be hated and feared like this, despised enough to fight him and drag him through the mud. And he knows he’d lose. He can’t reach his true form; he can’t call the Horde. He is alone and God’s favourites hate him. 

_“Motherffffucker”_ he hears the serpent hissing at him, he doesn’t has a mother, none of them does, he doesn’t _fuck_ either “I’ll kill you! I’ll ssskin you and wear your hide assss a cape, how dare you sshow up in my garden, leave my home and leave my planet before I sssplit you open and eat your gutss in a church! You blasted wanker!” He kept shouting and it seems like the only thing protecting him, holding him back from his fury were the pudgy human arms and the hushed words Aziraphale whispers to his ear.

“What are you doing here Gabriel?” Aziraphale asks him, his tone cutting, dangerous, the way he _should_ have sounded at the beginning, while talking to the serpent, while guarding the Eastern Gate. How is possible that a demon deserves more compassion than him, he wonders, but of course, the demon doesn’t hate Aziraphale. Love of his life had said the waiter. “You can clearly see you are most not welcome.”

He struggles to find words _help me I’ve fallen, I demand your help principality, I order you to take me back to Heaven, you who can flight there and back but has chosen a lowly demon and a material life among vermin, you who still shine with Their light and favour, give it to me, I demand it, I need it, I don’t know who I am without it _but he can’t speak so he stands up, his legs wobble underneath him and it hurts to breath, he is not sure that last it’s because the punch. He wants to speak, he was made to speak, he feels his arms move slightly forward, in a welcoming gesture he has used before and his forehead rise, but words won’t flow, and he can’t bear to look. He stands there in the garden, seen and alone.

“I suggest you stop imposing on us and remove yourself from our propriety, should we decide do something drastic” the principality says as he ushers the serpent through the door. He feels the barriers strengthen as soon as the door closes in front of him.

He is shivering, he feels it deep in the bones of his corporation, this is fear he thinks, his legs barely listen to him, enough to take him to the edge of the garden and still inside he sits on the ground, trembling and in pain, and does something he hadn’t done in a long time. He prayed. A broken pleading rising from him in a hushed murmur.

“If you are listening, God, if you are listening, I’m scared, I’m cold, Lord please let me back home. I’ve done wrong I know but I don’t deserve the pain, the cold. I ask for forgiveness, I beg, Lord. Lord, humans are like pigs in clothes, God, grant me mercy, grant me clemency, I've only wanted to follow your word, but you won’t talk to me anymore! You said repent and I repent please, please. I’m at your feet and I need your word, I need your guidance. Your light will save me for I don’t know what to do or who I am outside of you, Lord, I need a sign, I need your light.”

Silence. There is no light and no warmth. Their voice does not comes to him in harmonies that sound like the growth of a seed. He checks his pockets and he breaks again when he finds a paper that turns out to be his train ticket. His breath is ragged and something heavy has made home inside of his chest. His eyes sting, his clothes are dirty, and the night is setting so he gets up and walks, following the murmur of the sea. 

The sand was still warm when he sat on it and that’s a relief with the cold setting in with the night, he doesn’t sleep every night and he is too overwhelmed this one to even try. He feels completely alone for the first time in his eternal existence. The light of Their grace still shines inside him small and distant and he still can feel Their love, but he can’t feel the rest of Heaven, only vaguely those of both sides that wander Earth. He pulls his knees up to his chest and rest his weary head on them while his hands find their way to his hair, unable to watch the sunset. 

He is not sure of how much time has passed when someone sits beside him in the sand. He turns his head to see it’s the serpent resting besides him, one knee bent to support the hand that holds a cigarette. His eyes hidden by the dark glasses are fixed in the firmament and Gabriel has flickers of a memory, a laugh that tingles the same way the twinkle of the stars among this new creation of God. His sibling playing among the cosmos. He’s gotten good at forgetting, he thinks, at ignoring; memories and names, remembering only what made them different and dangerous. Surviving is easy for the winners, he thinks, forgetting not so much.

“It’s lit with hellfire,” he warns him “if you try anything funny, I _will_ burn you.” He takes a long drag of it, then, making the cherry of it shine red and bright. What a beautiful threat. 

“Why are you here?”

“You look like shite. We hate you, therefore need to keep a close eye to you. And you’ve been mopping here for the better part of five hours already, angel was starting to get worried and wanted to check on you. Over my eternally damned soul I told him”. Then he pointed to the cottage, where the red dot of another lit cigarette indicated someone's presence “That’s him anxiety smoking, making sure neither of us does something stupid”. He takes another drag of the cigarette, pulls a snuff box from a pocket and taps the ashes on it before he asks “Why on Earth are you here, though? What’d you want?”

“Help” it hurts to say it, it hurts in a place is not Theirs, that are purely Gabriel’s, and it feel heavy on his tongue, tight and vile, forcing him to face in some degree why he is there, who he has become.

“Don’t tell me you’ve Fallen! I’ve been waiting for that to happen since the crucifixion of Christ!”

“Do not dare bring forth the name of the Mesias!” For a second he found the strength to summon thunder to his voice, lightning illuminating his eyes, then all fight is gone from him again.

“Wow, uh… touchy”. They fall silent afterwards, Gabriel relaxing back into his misery, the serpent smoking, his cigarette never seeming to consume. The serpent stirs after a while, making their too many vertebrae click into place, and takes a deep breath through their mouth, tasting the air. “You don’t smell Fallen, though”. He says casually, like the fact that he may Fall is not a sky shattering revelation. “You smell…”

“Tainted” he offers.

“Uhn, yeah, and what?” He scoffs, he dares scoffs at him, and he wants to hurt the serpent, but he is so tired. “What do you want us to do? We are not gonna adopt you, we do hate you, and angel can do that now, so we _really_ don’t want you close”.

“How do you manage? Falling. It must be worse than this and you still… you are here and got everything you and that principality wanted, you haven’t earn it and I have been good, follow Their orders and Their will, I don’t deserve this, I don’t…”

“You sure about that? You’ve been a proper wanker for six thousand years and a bit. Your bloody self-righteousness in the war, don’t think I don’t remember. You couldn’t fight but sure as fuck made us feel like scum. ‘Bout time you fell from your high horse. ‘N you’re not doing anyone’s will but yours, did They told you They wanted to destroy Earth? Cuz the Almighty did not stop Aziraphale and me from stopping your war. Or trying to, really.”

“Did you have to question everything? Couldn’t you keep your mouth shut?! Do what you were told to do and nothing more?!” He feels the sudden angry memory of the times before the Fallen, of being among the first ones and the kinship of it, of seen the rest of the angels be created and helping them, teaching them. “You left me in Heaven, and I had to befriend Michael and Uriel! Brutes, only thinking about armours and punishments, don’t you think that it rubs off on you? I had to be the best, I had to manage everything! No one else could seem to keep calm, they wanted to flight down and slaughter you all! We had the weapons by then! I stopped them, we had a Great Plan, we have to follow what They want from us. If we act without Their approval, we’ll Fall too! I had to introduce bureaucracy in Heaven because after the Fall there were so many things to be done, so many siblings to mourn and we couldn’t!”

“Still, you couldn’t make time to learn about empathy. You are so obsessed with doing what _you_ think They want that you don’t even think about the bloody Ineffable Plan. Why did God make some creature with such capacity to create _and_ feel? Why did They allowed me to give them choice? To know the difference between good and bad? You think They actually wants to destroy them? Humanity is a trash bin fire and it’s absolutely amazing! They go about their lives, such short lives, without a purpose, without feeling Their love once, and they keep on living! They leave traces that last millennia sometimes! They weren’t made with a purpose; they were just made! And they have to find out the rest, they have, _can_, choose the rest”. There is a pause in his speech and Crowley rubs one hand on his hair, seeking to calm himself. “If the Lord has stationed you here, and you can’t go back to Heaven and haven’t been sent headfirst to Hell, then that’s what you ought to do, innit? Live among humans, see if you can learn something from ‘em”.

____________________

Crowley has gone back to his cottage, to his life with his angel and among humans and the things he has chosen for himself, finally free to do as he wishes, to question and learn as he pleases. Gabriel looks as his brother walks away from him and thinks he has made up his mind.

Dawn is getting close and he can see the sunlight birthing colour to the sea, so he gets up and starts making his way to the city, any city. He figures that if he is to learn from humanity he must be where they gather the most. That thing in the centre of him still weights impossibly heavy but the itch seems to have receded, he looks at the cottage once and then he is gone.


	2. epilogue

New York agrees with him better than London. The people are colder and prettier and make him feel important just because he dress nice. He is working. He finds meaningless jobs in high positions in meaningless companies and earns a salary that feels unfair in how high it is, so he donates. But he buys clothes too. Humans talk behind his back, about how pretty he is how handsome, about how he doesn’t eat, about how he lives in brand mineral water, glass bottles only - he is stuck on earth, he can’t have it destroyed by plastic - and fruits. Technology is a wonderful thing he uses to brag, books are still not his thing even if they are e-books, but that is fine, fashion magazines and TEDtalk videos fill his free time. The nights he doesn’t need to sleep he wonders the low neighbourhoods of the extended city, small blessings that brighten the days of people he does not care about. In the day he strides the high-end streets, placing minute curses on people that feel like looking in a mirror. He can do that now, the line has been blurred and he has been cast off of Heaven but does not belong to Hell, he follows the later people sometimes, to see if they learn faster than him. Humans always do, short lives mean fast learners.

Humans come to him now, to flirt, to cry, to be listened. He hates it. He hates it but he listens and diverts and lends paper napkins and divine wisdom that it’s not his, but it travels through him. He feels like a phone, like the tool that delivers a message. Most of the time he does not understand or remembers the message, but he realizes that he’s gone back to being The Messenger. It feels right.

Beelzebub has made the habit of bothering him. Showing up at his one room studio that faces the sunrise, at his work, barricading zzzirself in thin walled offices and pegging his bosses. Making him buy zzzir overly sugary drinks in popular coffee shops, dragging him to humid restaurants (Gabriel insist on at least going to places that do not look like ratholes) and complaining about Hell and the fact that now they have to deal with Michael as Heaven frontperson and Uriel in the back channels, about the field agent that they still cannot place and thankfully Heaven hasn’t placed another one down here yet, Gabe, unless that’s you.

He is not happy. It took him two months and a very angry landlord to figure out the had to pay rent, and about six to realize that he needed more furniture than a bed in his flat, the subway is torture and he can’t make selfish miracles most of the time (reality still bends around him, the jobs are always open, there is always a farmers market when he is feeling hungry and water is always at the perfect temperature when he drinks it and when he showers). Humanity is still disgusting but he finds out that most of the people that work around him feel the same thing. He can see now how an angel and a demon could have made a life on Earth, there are pleasures that it can offer that Heaven can’t; fresh fruits and Spanish cold cuts, baby alpaca sweaters and chamois gloves, and the exhilarating feeling of an entire city feeling happy at the same time he discovers the moment he witness his first New Year. He is not happy, but he wonders if God and himself would allow him to, eventually, be. 

In the meantime, Gabriel M. Archangel builds a human life in New York City and, when he feels like it, he sometimes even goes to church.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short thing i wrote cuz i felt that it needed a better closure.
> 
> i am unable to write hopeless things :/

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is the celestial equivalent of a mother yelling at you "im not kicking you out of the house but you are gonna go live with your aun until you learn to behave"
> 
> if yall think i should tag it something more let me know, and thanks for reading!


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